We had been going for hours. It was after dinner at Hotel Abbasi, Isfahan, on the night of Amanda’s thirty-sixth birthday, and upon request Bahman had taken us back to the Imam Square’s Imperial Bazaar to find the perfect blue enamel bowls. Rebecca and I had seen the small bowls the day before, at Vank Cathedral in New Julfa, but disregarding the “If you love it, buy it,” travel motto, we assured ourselves we could find them later–the city was filled with enamel workshops, after all. So that night we were back at Imam Square, along with the rest of the Isfahanis. Families were picnicking on the large lawn in the middle of the square, while women lifted by five-inch designer heels and men stuffed into faded denim pants pushed past us to the bastani shop (we’re not the only ones with the ice cream obsession), as we pushed through the dark and the heat to any enamel shop we could find. “How about these?” Bahman would ask, holding up blue, turquoise, and light pink soup bowls. The artist nodded slightly, firing off something in Farsi. “They’ve been fired three times, at 150º C, you can’t find any with this quality!” Bahman translated the artist’s persuasion, his eyebrows raising and his forehead giving up small beads of sweat. No, we told him, these are too big. So onto the next shop, we pushed our own way through the crowds swarming under the arches of the well-lit bazaar to find those bowls.

There’s something about intuition. I will be the first to pledge myself to science, philosophy and reason before all superstition, but something else seems to be at work lately that I can’t quite put my finger on. Perhaps it’s all the feel-good movies I’ve inundated myself with since returning to the US from Iran two weeks ago, but I feel confident in saying I know what I want. For the first time in my life, things are perfectly clear and I have no more questions, doubts, pro-con lists cluttering my mind–I just know that I want to keep studying Iran. My beautiful adopted parents, Chuck and Rebecca, had such dreams for me. As the youngest on the trip, we would often sit around the breakfast table at the hotel in Shiraz or in Tehran, everyone making fun of the fact that I don’t understand certain cultural references (“That was before my time,” I’d say, sullenly), and everyone would bank on my future for me. CIA agent, Ambassador, Cultural Attaché, Photojournalist–the titles were never-ending and exhilarating. But it was Chuck and Rebecca, Georgetown natives, who held the biggest of dreams for me.

We had just entered our fourth shop, upon the suggestion of our tireless guide (“I have a friend who works in this one!” Bahman told us, enthusiastic til the end), when Chuck was tempting me with dreams of a career at the State Department. “Think it over,” he prodded. “You know, they can pay for grad school–you have to ace your GREs and have a solid GPA, but you can go for free.” “Really?” I said, fingering a little blue vase. “Oh of course! JD, PhD, MA, whatever.” “But doesn’t it make more sense to get your MS in Foreign Service or something?” “It doesn’t matter what you study, just so long as they have you after graduation.”

The words were intoxicating. My parents, in all their generosity and support, told me that they’d finance my undergraduate career but any advanced degree was on me. So, being the relatively frugal person I am (when it comes to my own funds–I have no problem spending their money!) the question of being in debt at 24 was not even a consideration. I’d only go for my Master’s if it was a pre-professional degree,” I told my dad on the way to the airport on my last trip back east, “Because otherwise, the cost is too high.” But as I stood in that little shop, still exhausted from looking for those perfect bowls, I saw a world of possibility open up beyond the stone arches of the bazaar. I’ve always loved to collect, to take advantage of opportunities and feel like I’ve gotten some great deal or made the most out of something, and I knew that if I truly had the chance to barter two more years of study for a three year contract with the State, I would jump to keep studying Iran. It’s pathetic, really it is–people think I’m irresponsible, a little crazy and probably too enthusiastic to seriously conclude anything about anything, especially Iran. My, a-hum, Doctor, while shoving a metal contraption somewhere metal should never be, asked me about my summer plans and then said, “Oh honey. Why Iran? You’re an American.” But as Chuck sat on that dirty plastic chair, in a sea of turquoise, aqua, cerulean and the deepest of all blues covering vases, plates and bowls that were either too big or too small or too not right, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d already found what I’d been looking for; or rather it found me: the knowledge of exactly what I want. For so long I’ve been quite adept at intuiting others’ wants and needs–but my own were so elusive, always hiding out of sight. But that’s the thing about Iran. Nothing is as it seems and even the most inconvenient of truths are right there in plain sight.

And there, six shops later, the perfect bowls were waiting for us. They were the precise size–for, say, olives during book club (as Rebecca was planning on using them for), or jewelry on the nightstand (as Amanda was planning on using them for), or gifts, as mine will be. I was only going to buy one, maybe two, but on a gut instinct I got three, and ended up with a discount. It was somewhere in Iran, between the hyperactive nights in Isfahan to the lazy afternoons of Yazd, that I stopped hearing everything else and I didn’t figure outwhat I want, per se, but I came to know it. As if it had been waiting all along. I don’t know where I’ll end up for grad school–Georgetown’s School of Foreign Service? Harvard Grad’s Center for Middle Eastern Studies? London’s School of Oriental and African Studies?–but I’m not done with Iran. It’s what I want, and I’m not afraid to pursue it. As Rumi once said, “All day I think about it, then at night I say it. Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing? I have no idea. My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that, and I intend to end up there.”

“Take off your escarf.” – Hamid’s soulful eyes – Gabe meets fashion students at Moshir al-Mamalak – stolen prayer stones from the Jumeh Mosque in Isfahan – Gabe’s eggs – “I’m sorry my dear, no dancing for you.” – the Parthian Pinhead – green tea or black? – the perfect enamel bowls without saucer – Patty’s the only one who orders faloodeh-bastani for me! – Amanda loves her watermelon – when the girls are alone, all we eat is bread and lines of cheese – Daddy’s ghetto – “where’s Gabe?” – fruit plates: oranges, apples, and Persian zucchinis – Tom’s Axis of Evil Tour: Cuba, North Korea, Iran – two separate security lines at Mehrabad – “Chuck, I think our surrogate daughter is a little pixellated.” – the American-loving owner of Shahrzad and his guestbook – “How much was the carpet?” “$125,000. But he made money on it–he traded one of his Caspian Sea properties, and he’ll take the carpet as down payment.” – Bebakhshid. – another long bus ride through the mountains, and Amanda’s asleep – Hamid’s music: persian pop/flamenco/poetry recitation – “Five million dollar single-family homes.” – ice cream in that Northern Tehran mall, right off of Vali Nasr (Pahlavi) Boulevard – bird-pecked fortunes at Hafez’s tomb – “This used to be called Queen Elizabeth Street. Now it’s Farmers’ Street.” – creepy male mannequins at the Isfahan bazaar – Rebecca’s glue stick – “Hey Gaaabe, wanna pass me a water?” – mango juice (nectar) in Yazd – Persepolis was astounding – Patty and I have matching manteaus, Rebecca and Amanda have matching manteaus – “You know who Maz Jobrani is? You should have a PhD in Middle Eastern Studies!” – turquoise necklace from Shiraz – “That’s where Mr. I’m-a-nut-job works.” – Chuck attempts a duet with Rojan – we see a Saudi woman in a burka at a restaurant in Shiraz-how does she eat? – an actual coffee shop in New Julfa-latte please! – To badi. To latti. – individual servings of mast-o museer in Ayabaneh – fesenjan – delirious at the Tehran Contemporary Art Museum – Persian herbal infusions: one tasted like drinking a rose, straight; the one with vinegar, honey and cucumber cools us down; and the clear one is actually pure mint and sugar – “You are the only Americans in Isfahan right now. Oh, yes, the Police must keep your passports, just so they can keep an eye on you.” – our room in Shiraz comes with a complimentary Quran, and book of Hafez poetry – Amanda and I stay up gossiping and giggling all night – Mr. Olympic at the gym–did he have green eyes? – charity collection boxes protect against seventy disasters – carrot jam, sour cherry jam, cedrate jam – black turban means you’re descended from the Prophet on your father’s side, white on both sides, and green on neither – sangak, lavosh, barbari, taftoon-we love all bread – special Isfahani pudding tastes like arroz con leche – Tah-chin, the national dish – “You have something on your shirt?” “What?” “Got you!” – trying to order pomegranate juice by ourselves at Mahtab truck stop – “This is a beautiful, eighteenth century Safavid caravan saray. Look!” – Patty’s chador is falling off in the mosque – lion attacks a bull at Persepolis, a symbol of Spring overtaking Winter, for Norooz – who wants a full camel head for dinner? – Chuck gets a kiss from a shirazi at Eram Gardens – pictures of martyrs line the side of the highway – “Baba!” – “Amandah! Rebeccah! Alexah!” we love our long a’s – crossing the street alone in Isfahan is impossible and terrifying, we need a local.

The Apadana, Darius the Great's ceremonial palace, where he and his court would celebrate Norooz, or the Persian New year

We’re just arrived back in Tehran, where it all started and where it’s all about to end. After Shiraz, we were whisked away to Isfahan, famously dubbed “Isfahan, nefs-e jahan,” or “Isfahan, half of the world” because of the commerce that thrived there under the rule of Shah Abbas the Great. Before we could arrive in Half of the World, we took a detour to the highlight of our itinerary: Persepolis. This is the famous site of Darius the Great’s ceremonial palace, dating back to the sixth century BCE, and the sight is awesome. The grounds were burned (reportedly) by Alexander the Great in 330 BCE, leaving only remains–but the sheer size of this place is enough to see the pomp and circumstance of Darius’s court. You enter through the Gate of Nations, meant to represent all the territories under the Persian Empire’s control under the Achaemenids, and looking up at 60-foot rock reliefs, all I could feel was small and in awe. This place was older than anything else I had ever visited, and kings–true kings who ruled the “four corners of the civilized world”–had walked through the same gates I was. Persepolis was one of the first things I ever visualized about Iran, and truthfully probably the first part of my eclectic education about the country. Though my knowledge would be compounded later in Beatrice Manz’s comprehensive course, History of Iran, it all really started in a dingle (a double room inhabited by a single student when a roommate moves out) in Tilton Hall, one of the all-freshman dorms at Tufts. When people ask me how I became interested in Iran, I can always trace the answer back to that room, on that April night at the end of my freshman year. It was all quite odd, actually. After dressing up for the Arabic Academy Awards that afternoon, a mandatory event for all first-year Arabic students to showcase our final video projects, I was surreptitiously invited by my friend Afsheen to crash Friday night Shabbat services at Chabad House. So, after an afternoon of Lebanese food and Arabic chatter, we promptly stuffed ourselves again on gefilte fish and challah–as the only two non-Jews in the room, we spent a lot of time humming along to prayers and avoiding any questions about religious beliefs–but the food was great and the night was just beginning. Somehow we ended up back in his room that night, with a whole bunch of friends, listening to Persian pop music on YouTube–after a few music videos I started asking questions, and soon we were watching clips of documentaries about the great, ancient, Persian empire. It’s a rare pair that enjoys ten-part YouTube documentaries on a Friday night, but somehow I found it all fascinating. This was a whirlwind glimpse into a place I never considered myself fit to hold opinions on–Iran was wrapped up in political connotations, a language most foreign to me, and a whole bunch of misconceptions that I didn’t have the time, energy, or confidence to investigate for myself. But there we were, he telling me about Zoroastrianism, the ancient Achaemenid kings and translating lyrics using a mixture of Arabic, English and Spanish–all things that brought this place closer and closer to me. Perhaps I could know about this place after all. By this time everyone else had cleared out, we had been sitting on uncomfortable dorm chairs for hours, and we were both enraptured by a six-part series on Persepolis. All sorts of recreated scenes played out before us: Darius’s palace, replete with massive columns, Xerxes’s ceremonial rooms, and of course, a procession of kings through the Gate of Nations. My education would continue past that night (which lasted from four in the afternoon to six in the morning, no joke)–him teaching me about his homeland, me reading about it, academics theorizing on it–but that little video of Persepolis was the starting point of a seemingly endless passion, and here I was seeing it in the flesh. Things seemed to have come full circle.

So, we traveled on to Isfahan, Half of the World–which was almost as surreal as Persepolis, though for an entirely different reason. Instead of incredible size and enviable age, Isfahan is a city of stunning beauty that seems entirely out of place. Running through the city is a huge dried-up riverbed (it fills with water in the wintertime), and along either side of the river are two parks, stretching twenty miles on each side. These parks are larger-than-life reincarnations of famous Persian gardens, stretching as far as the eye can see. Large sycamore trees shade the sidewalk, grass stretched for blocks and blocks and flowers spring up at every corner. However, like most things that seem too crafted to be naturally formed, Isfahan has a very conservative and at times oppressive feel. The city lost the most amount of martyrs during the Iran-Iraq War, and it is still considered a center for fierce patriotism. But oh, to see this city is to behold something immortal. Imam Square, the second largest square in the world, houses a couple of mosques (Sheikh Lotfollah and Jumeh Mosques) and an old Safavid Palace, Ali Qapu. The architecture in this square is exquisite, detailed, and like the rest of the city, a little elusive–Isfahan was shrouded in impenetrable greenness, everywhere from its trees to the tiles lining the Friday Mosque (Jumeh Mosque) and the color of its famous enamel handicraft. Perhaps like its riverbed (othwerwise called the Zayanderud River, or “life-giving” river), the purpose of this ex-capital had dried somewhat, but its effect was just as stunning.

And from the beauty of Isfahan we have returned to Tehran, city of script and verse. We leave for the airport in a few hours, and I miss this place already. We’ve said goodbye to our guide (baba, or “daddy,” as he’s come to be known), our driver (Hamid) and the rest of our group. I’m hopeful that my eclectic education is still growing, twisting and speeding along without my control and into some new adventure into the depths of the Persian identity. All I feel is lucky, and extremely humbled in the face of all I have seen, all whom I’ve talked to, and all I’ve discovered here in Iran. For all of you who can, learn anything about this place–pick up a book, google”Hafez” or “Rumi” or “Sa’di,” find a friendly Iranian and ask questions, or get your hands on some Persian music and get to know this place for yourself. I am so grateful for that one spring night freshman year, when an acquaintance became a close friend and I got a glimpse into a culture I never thought I would be educated enough, or that I even deserved, to study or to know Iran’s changed my life forever, and I am so lucky I got to travel here myself, make my own opinions, and continue this particular education. Shab-be kheir, goodnight, and lots of love from Tehran!

Approaching Persepolis

The Gate of All Nations, where all the vassal states of the Persian Empire entered to greet the Shah

Today we’re in Shiraz, perhaps the sexiest part of Iran. The manteaus here are short, the scarves are designer and pushed far, far back on the head, and the jeans are tight. And that’s just the women! The men all seem to wear painfully tight jeans and small little t-shirts as they whip around the city in motorbikes. This is the city of love. Our guide, Bahman, is already adding a new career path to his impressive resume–actor, basketball player for the national Iranian team, model, investor, marine, translator, tour guide, and last but not least: international matchmaker. For some reason he seems to have adopted us four women as his American daughters (and, when that gets boring, we joke that we make up his harem, haha) and he sees it as his duty to marry us off to wealthy, attractive Persian men–especially me, being young and naive and in need of a nice man to buy me expensive Persian rugs. It started our very first day in Iran, when I happened to comment to Rebecca that the guard at the National Crown Jewel Collection had the most piercing green eyes. And, as the infant of the group (everyone either has grandchildren, children my age, or could be my grandparents–but I love them all like my own Persian family!). It was instantly remarked upon that I should find a rich green-eyed Persian husband. Immediately. And, this city, Shiraz, is the place to do it. We visited Hafez’s tomb this morning, a Persian poet who did as much for this country’s national identity as the Quran did (some might argue). He wrote of love–between two lovers and between the devout and the divine. This is called the city of love, nightingales and roses, citing oft-used images in Hafez’s poetry. And his tomb serves as the same purpose as his poetry did: to defy reality and to make the unknown known; shirazis come here both to pray and find dates. No joke. We saw whole families approach the marble tomb, encrusted with the writings of this famed poet, touch two fingers to the cool surface and whisper memorized prayers under their breath, eyes closed, hoping for some guidance from the man who knew all things. Then, along the perimeters of the tomb, where perfectly manicured Persian gardens provide shade and fragrant scenery, we saw those same fashionable women, make-up and heels and headscarves, sitting exceedingly close to men their age, talking about what I’m not sure, but the body language needed no translation.

The Tomb in the early morning

Young Shirazis meet at the tomb

We all had our fortunes told by the might Hafez, still influencing things from the grave–for a dollar (10,000 rials) we paid to have a little bird peck out a folded fortune. The fortunes start off with a poem, and continued on to give us advice. Bahman interpreted mine for me, “You are in love with someone and only have eyes for them, but this is in vain” he read, “you are fixated on a closed door, and do not see all the open doors surrounding you. You would be wise to learn from those more experienced than you. Luck is like a butterfly, you must catch it before it flutters away.” Ugh. This is what Hafez has come to tell me? We were all sitting around the dinner table, feasting on another meal of kabob, saffron rice, fesenjan (the best walnut-pomogranate-chicken stew you’ll ever taste in your life; similar to Mexican mole in both taste and color) and, of course, epic amounts of bread–but my fortune didn’t quite seem to match the delicious excesses of the meal. Fixed gaze on a closed door? What does that mean? Does that refer to my studies, my friends, love interests, my view of myself? “It means,” philosophized Patty, “That you should be considering blue and brown-eyed Persians as well. You’re closing yourself off! “Patty is one my favorite people on this trip. She is frank and honest, but she’s always up for seeing a new sight, asking questions of our guide and looking for information in all she encounters. She’s older than my dad, but I swear she acts like a sixteen year old half the time, and a six-year old the other half. My surrogate mommy on this trip is Rebecca, a freelance writer from DC. She came with Chuck–the two of them have been together for 25 years, and have been to over half the world’s countries combined. You can tell she’s a writer–she always has stories to offer from her far-off travels (a horse-riding incident in Mongolia, a Rotweiler attack in Cambodia, a Santa Claus mix-up in Argentina), and she’s probably one of the funniest people I’ve met. I plan to live with her and Chuck if I ever go to grad school in DC–here’s hoping! Chuck is a philosophy professor, which is instantly obvious when you observe him walk–he ambles, meaningfully, around every monument, painting, piece of classic Persian architecture–he takes everything in, quietly but enthusiastically, all while carrying a little navy blue umbrella to shade himself. Gabe is the rogue of the group; he is famous for skipping our on dinner one night to go on a date at Hafez’s tomb. He had met some nice local tour guide earlier in the day, and they made plans to meet up that night. He borrowed my Farsi phrasebook the first day of our trip and never returned it–instead he used it to start a conversation with everyone he met who would talk to him. And, because Persians are the most polite, interested, and chatty people on the planet, he quickly made friends with female fashion students, art students, museum guides–anyone and everyone. Tom, a retired lawyer from Houston, bears a striking resemblance to the Mohammad Reza Shah, and he has thus been nicknamed Shah Tom, He’s “shawsome.” Even the natives look at him a little sideways sometimes, inquiring, “Are you from around here?” But then he breaks out his Southern accent, hardened in Mobile, Alabama, and the distinction is clear. Amanda, my roommate, is an English teacher from Ohio, but she and I have the most fun gossiping about the rest of the group late at night. She has the biggest heart and the cutest laugh–and it’s her birthday in two days! Our guide bought her a turquoise necklace–one of the only two stones locally mined –for her birthday. Speaking of our guide, he might just be the incarnation of everything Persian, but exaggerated. he is the most generous man on the planet. His grandfather was a khan, or leader, for the Bakhtiyari tribe, which he eventually left to join the military, but leading groups runs in his blood. He has such pride for his country, and he knows everything about it, and shares it all with us in the hopes that we might love it too. He’s spent more than my entire college tuition on Persian carpets in the last three days, some for the Tehran condo and others for the Caspian Sea villa, and yet others for the property he might be buying in Shiraz. This guy is loaded, and it makes it all the more enjoyable for us to have a Persian sugar daddy that constantly feeds us bastani (ice cream–saffron, please!) mango, pomegranate, and orange juice, chai, coffee and anything else our hearts desire–we’re the luckiest adopted kids on the planet!

I don’t quite know if Hafez was directing me to a broader field of study, a different world view, or maybe just a small reminder that I am one of the luckiest Middle Eastern Studies majors to be visiting Iran first-hand. But perhaps I was being warned not to get too comfortable and to continue to soak up everything around me. The Iranians build humility into their mosques and their lives, and I have so much to learn from them. If the “more experienced” I’m supposed to be learning from is my group, then I’m in good hands–these people have all sorts of dreams for me, from future Ambassador Stevens to Iranologist to perfectly-coiffed tehrooni (Tehran is probably my favorite city though I’ve loved them all!). Or, perhaps I am just reminded to not over-romanticize everything, and that there is always more to learn. Though if I never stopped learning about this place, I would be happy–I haven’t found my green-eyed Persian man yet, but I am still madly in love with this place. So much for finding love in Shiraz!

We were standing in a seven hundred year old mosque on the morning of Eid Mabas, or the day the Prophet Mohammad received the revelation from God telling him that he was to be the Prophet. It was quiet in the blue-stoned mosque on that particular morning, only a lone woman knelt at the mihrab (an arched centerpiece of the mosque that faces towards Mecca; the mihrab is lowered into the ground so as to show humility before God; also to protect the devout–several imams were assassinated while in prayer at the mihrab) of the Jumeh Mosque in Yazd. It was the first structure of its kind we’d entered in Iran, and the effect was awesome. Standing before intricate and perfect patterned walls that tower multiple stories high, one can’t help feeling both their incredible smallness and the infinite complexity of living. The entire building was covered in little blue tiled mosaics, dutifully placed in exquisite patterns of stars and flowers, interweaving corners of hexagons all in shades of the finest turquoise, cerulean and aqua blue. “It has a cooling effect” Bahman tells us, “to enter a place that is all blue.” It was outstandingly hot that day in Yazd, with highs of 52C or 120F. But oddly enough, I didn’t feel it–the heat in Iran is ever-present, but the air is thin and there is no humidity, leaving my skin porcelain-smooth and my hair–though a sight yet unseen by most in my group–silky and soft, a similar effect to winters in Boston. We were in the city of Yazd, and with its heat, eternal flame and famed yellow bricks, it seemed to be the oven of Iran. Most of the old city is protected as a UNESCO World Heritage site, and it is entirely constructed out of dust-colored yellow bricks formed into arches, low walls and careful entryways. Yazd is known for the religious minority it houses: the Zoroastrians. Zoroastrianism was, according to most, the world’s first monotheistic religion, and was practiced by many kings of Persia until the Islamic conquest in the seventh century CE. The Zoroastrians worship fire, and have kept the same eternal flame burning in Yazd for over 1515 years. They believe in good thoughts, good deeds, and good speech to aid in the triumph of good (embodied in Ahura Mazda) over evil (Ahriman). The Zoroastrian women can be identified by their dress; though they often wear the chador, it is usually dark blue or black in color, and covered with a pattern of small bright-colored flowers. But today was a Muslim holiday and there was more to the celebrations.

This night, we visited a real, Iranian gym, that had been built inside of a water cistern. Water cisterns were a common site in Yazd, they rise out of the ground in a beehive-like fashion, standing a story and a half or so tall, and allowing for deep recesses into the earth where yazdis used to keep their water supply. But on ground level, there was a gym fashioned into this circular building, with the same humility built into the architecture: the main gym floor was lowered a few (five or so) feet into the ground. We toured it once in he morning, seeing the equipment used for calisthenics that the men would do later that day, including oar-like bats, at least half a foot in diameter along the bottom, that evened out into a small handle at the other end. These were like elaborate weights that the men would hold over their shoulders and rotate in large circles, almost mimicking a forward stroke in swimming. When we returned at 6pm that night, the show had already begun. A group of twenty or so men–ranging in age from 15 to 75–were spread across the inner circle, doing coordinated push-ups. The leader in the middle was probably about 70, and was once the national champion in wrestling. But the men weren’t the stunning part, rather the sounds emanating from the front of the circular room where a man was chanting prayers, to the beat of a drummer who sat beside him. Bahman explained that this particular form of exercise was developed during the Iran-Iraq war, when prayer was often used as a motivator for the troops. It felt almost too intimate, like we were watching the men engaging in some sort of Iranian-style exercise dance class, but the mood was extremely serious and, even proud. At one point a little boy–maybe five–walked into the gym, picked up the smallest set or oar-like bats, and started following the ex-champion’s lead. I could imagine men kissing their wives and mothers goodbye after the afternoon siesta (everything in Yazd is closed, at least in the summertime between 2 and 5pm to avoid the heat), grabbing their gym clothes (and what clothes they were! Elaborately embroidered paisley pants and tight exercise shirts in white and green) and setting off for the old water cistern.

It reminded me, of what I have observed to be, the most incredible trait of Iranians throughout history: the ability to adapt without losing their identity. As we walk through varying museums and old homes, learning about the ridiculously chaotic history of this nation, I can’t help but stand in awe of Iranians today. To be Persian means so much–you can see the pride in people’s faces when they tell us about their country. Even Bahman, the true essence of a respectful guide, who aims to educate not to convince, is fierce when differentiating the Persians from those people around him, and even from the rest of the world. As a twenty-something year old at the halfway mark of her undergraduate career, I have regular identity crises which all end the same way: who am I, where do I come from, and who will I be? All undergraduates should visit Iran. Hell, all people should visit Iran. Regardless of age I look to everything around me for definition, including what I study, where I live, what I do with my free time, what I read and who I admire–but in Iran everything seems, from what I can tell, to run so much deeper. It’s not external, as the exterior is not the space for autonomous identity-formation. Rather it is the personal, the relationships with extensive family, people, and one’s own self that is the driving force behind Iranian identity. Looking out of the windows of our little bus, the streets are lined with pictures of martyrs from the war; Khomeini and Khameini peer down from store windows, billboards and even the rials we exchange for dollars; Imam Ali can be found everywhere from the mosque to the back window of a Shirazi taxi. But it is not this space, outside, which provides personal identity. It’s the interior, one’s relationships, one’s views–even though we espouse the American dream as the ultimate testament to our individuality, I constantly feel plagued by the burdon of showing, expressing, and defending my own self, whatever that is supposed to differentiate myself so much from anyone else off the street, in every public portal: from Facebook, to what I wear, to the thoughts in my head–it’s all a public entity. We may have the freedom of expression, but I feel it as a weight of personal defense. I envy the Iranians, their pride and seemingly inherent knowledge of who they are. I don’t mean to make black-and-white comparisons, but I do mean to highlight the potential for personal strength in a place where one’s public identity is already defined, already distinguished.

A gym made from a water cistern

"...including oar-like bats, at least half a foot in diameter along the bottom, that evened out into a small handle at the other end. These were like elaborate weights that the men would hold over their shoulders and rotate in large circles, almost mimicking a forward stroke in swimming."